


Sleeping at night

by Lightning070



Series: Tales of two Space Warriors and their Green Womprat [3]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apathy, Darkness, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin emotional whump, Din Djarin's helmet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Loss of Faith, Numbness, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Cara Dune, Sleeping Together, Some tears are shed, Touch-Starved, Trust, mild PTSD, nervous breakdown, respectful Cara Dune, spoilers for chapter 15: The believer, there's more than one bed though, why is it so hard to tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28061391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning070/pseuds/Lightning070
Summary: Every few seconds, Din keeps wondering how in Malachor he ended up in Cara’s bed.He still hasn’t come up with a rational answer.[It might seem what you think it is – but it isn't // Emotional Rollercoaster // Beskar is overrated // Blind trust is my kink // English is not my native language!]
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cara Dune, implied Caradin
Series: Tales of two Space Warriors and their Green Womprat [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091606
Comments: 36
Kudos: 221





	Sleeping at night

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it looks like I wrote this. Kinda. Sleep-wrote. Whatever, just leave kudos/comments if you like it ♥
> 
> Ahead: some necessary Italian tags I need to put here 'cause this is for a Christmas contest.
> 
> [Evento: Maritombola 11 indetta da Lande di Fandom - Prompt n°11: Apatia]

Every few seconds, Din keeps wondering how in Malachor he ended up in Cara’s bed.

He still hasn’t come up with a rational answer.

It’s all a blur. It’s all been a blur since they took the kid away. Since the Crest is no more. Since he broke the Creed. It’s not actually a blur – it’s a void expanding in his mind, eating his thoughts alive.

He can’t even properly _think_ about what happened. It just hums in the back of his head like a broken engine while he’s on autopilot, and it won’t let him sleep. He just stares at the ceiling, aware of Cara’s presence beside him, aware of his bare head resting on a shared pillow, an arm on his forehead as a useless shield and protection for his naked face.

Aware of _not being_ aware. Not even remotely.

His body is here, but his mind feels trapped under the beskar, where he’s supposed to be too. He senses his helmet watching him from the corner. Judging him. Deeming him unworthy of wearing it. Flaying him alive with every passing second.

He tries to take a deep breath, but it just gets stuck between his ribs. He closes his eyes, uselessly, and it’s like they’re still open anyway. He just wishes he could sleep.

**A few hours before.**

They’re stopping on Nevarro for supplies. Gideon’s ship seems to be headed near the sector anyway, so they’ll be able to intercept him in a matter of hours as soon as he leaves hyperspace. They can’t attack him directly: they need to think out a plan, see where he’s headed, plan their every move. Observe, then act. They don't have the upper hand here.

At least, that’s what Boba tells them as the veteran of their group – and Din has a feeling that he’s mostly talking to _him_. As if he knew he might object and demand they act immediately and head-first. He doesn’t. He nods and agrees, even though he feels almost deaf to what he’s just heard.

It makes sense, after all. Plus, the _Slave I_ needs fuel, they all need some sleep and recovery, and he needs an _osikla_ moment alone, away from everyone else, to scream his lungs off in his helmet. That same helmet he’s supposed to never wear again in his whole life. After just a few seconds, his voice goes raw and his vocal cords hurt as a metallic taste seeps in his mouth.

Cara finds him at sunset, sitting on one of the lava ridges around the city, and basically stops him before he goes completely voiceless. He’s glad for his soundproof helmet, even though he shouldn't be wearing it, but there’s only so much it can hide. Pacing back and forth with his hands latched behind his neck and his head bent forward does not count as normal behavior for him, but Cara has the tact not to inquire, if not for a single, piercing look.

She tells him something about some half-assed plan they’re trying to put together, but he’s not even capable of understanding what she’s saying, let alone contribute to it. He tries to snap out of it. He should be focused on rescuing the kid and make Gideon pay, but he can’t tell one thought from another anymore. It’s all background noise by now, and he just feels _apart_.

«You have a place to sleep, tonight?» she asks suddenly, and he’s not sure if she suddenly changed the subject or if that’s just something that came up in her mind. And since the Crest is gone, it’s a fair question.

He tries to swallow and it’s like gulping down a vibroblade.

«I still have my old bunk at the covert,» he replies, knowing the vocoder only partly helps at concealing how hoarse his voice really is.

He can tell from Cara’s look that it sounds more awful than he’d thought. Also, he has no idea how he’s come up with a sensible answer when his mind can’t even remember when he last ate or how he got there.

«I don’t think that’s a good idea,» she just says, gently, but firmly. And she’s absolutely right. That’s not the right moment for sleeping with ghosts – or lying awake with them. «I’ve got a spare cot in my room at the Cantina, if you’re not too picky.»

No, he’s not. He’d sleep in the lava fields if it helped him black out for a few moments. And being around her sounds definitely better than being around others – specifically another creedless Mandalorian. He accepts the offer without even realizing it. Next thing he knows, time skips a few hours forward when he blinks, and he’s in Cara’s room. He realizes she’s asked him something he didn’t hear since she’s raising her eyebrows at him.

He tries to recollect if he’s even answered a single question she may have asked him, or uttered a single word along the way. Either she’s the most patient person in the world – which she _isn’t_ – or he’s just gone on autopilot again. He’s definitely zoned out and he can’t even remember how he physically got there. So he just stares at her cluelessly, hoping she’ll repeat whatever she said.

«Mando?» she calls him. He almost flinches at that word, which doesn't truthfully describe him anymore. He manages to force out a nod, letting her know he’s listening – or trying to. Her slight frown seems concerned, more than annoyed. «I asked you if you usually sleep in total darkness, in case you want to take your bucket off. I won’t look, but just tell me what’s best for you. I don’t know how this works,» she adds, with a vague gesture of her hands and a quirk of her lips.

She’s talking slower than usual and he can’t help but think about yesterday, when his face was in plain view of an Imperial officer thinking he was deaf, or dumb, or both. He can feel the humiliation scorching him alive, the dishonor weighing him down like a press as if he were thrown into that very moment again, forced to live through it again. Defenseless, exposed. He’s cold, under the scalding heat burning his skin.

«I don’t know either.»

His voice sounds so strangled he could swear someone is choking him – just like yesterday, when there was an invisible hand squeezing his throat and making his head swim with weightlessness. He’s dizzy now too; gusts of air whips his face even if it’s fully covered. He doesn’t feel the rest of his body – just a hollow beskar shell bearing down on him.

«What– you don’t know? What does that mean?»

Cara is clearly taken aback, almost irritated – or worried. Maybe she thinks he’s being difficult. Maybe he is. Maybe he really doesn’t know. _Has he ever known?_

«I broke the Creed.»

It slips out of his mouth like a blaster shot, even though he talks as quiet as he ever has, and he sees the utter dismay on her face, the horror, the disbelief, as if he hit her right in the guts. He feebly shakes his head and just looks at her blankly.

«I don’t know how it works now, I don’t–» he completely loses his voice at that point, as if someone had sucked it from his lungs.

His body goes numb again, his head drowsy with thoughts too thick to be singled out. He stands there like a lifeless droid, and he sees her struggling to put together some words, fretting on the spot, eyes wide with shock. Until she just sighs deeply. She draws a hand over her face, purses her lips, and doesn’t say a single thing, even though he can sense a thousand words building inside her.

Then she’s in front of him. She looks at him behind the helmet and he can see her eyes are rimmed with unshed tears which just scream _I’m sorry_ in his face, even if she doesn’t say it, even if she doesn’t make the slightest move to touch him. He's more grateful for that silence than for that thousand words spoken out loud.

«You still want to stay?» she just asks, matter-of-factly, through a distinct quaver in her voice.

It’s a _real_ question, which begs a yes or a no for an answer, and he knows, from how she's looking at him, that he's equally allowed to both. Maybe he should really go and sleep somewhere else. Or just pace through the whole night losing his head and voice. He can’t bring himself to. He clenches his fists, then releases them along with a stuttering breath that almost smothers his answer: «Yes.»

Cara only nods once, her lips tight, then walks right past him. Next thing he knows, she’s turned off all the lights and closed the shutters, shrouding the small room in almost complete darkness. He takes off his helmet without even thinking about it, his body acting by its own volition as it senses the relative safety of partial blindness. He can’t see anything, not even his own hands. He shouldn’t feel _safe_ – seeing has nothing to do with how he’s supposed to act in that situation.

 _The helmet stays on, period_. But it doesn’t, it comes off and goes to rest in the corner. Then he just mechanically starts to take off his armor, knowing that might be one of the last times he's doing it. He strips down to his undershirt and loose pants he wears under the jumpsuit. He doesn’t feel lighter, but a least he can breathe more easily. He doesn't even know if it's cold or not in there, since his skin has gone numb, but he has goosebumps all over his arms.

He can feel every bruise that day has etched on him, and he finds a new ache in every movement – he almost _seeks_ them, unable to feel anything else, and that’s better than _nothing_ at all. He can hear Cara undressing as well, somewhere in the other side of the room. He knows he should feel _something_ about that too – he’s thought about it sometimes, he can't deny it – but his body just feels leaden, almost bloodless, unable to react even in the most basic ways.

She’s just a faint shadow in the darkness, now, sitting on her bed. She leaves him to his own devices, in complete silence. Only when all the clinking and tinkling and rustling from his armor and garments ceases, leaving him standing there, petrified, not knowing if he should just lay on the cot or spend the night like that, does she stand up. She approaches him and he doesn’t know how much of him she can really see, but he just knows her eyes are not looking directly at his face. She wouldn't, even though it doesn't matter anymore.

Then she reaches for his wrist, squeezing it so lightly he can barely feel it, and tugs it gently in her direction. He lets her guide him without a single protest, blindly climbing into bed after her. It’s small, but not so small as to feel cramped. He struggles to realize what he’s even doing, but he stops trying to understand.

He surrenders to the painful numbness enveloping him, as he half-feels, half-sees Cara laying down beside him, facing in the opposite direction from him. And he just lays there too, inches from her, a single dip pressed into the mattress. He's not even concerned about their eyes getting used to the dark until they can make out each other’s faint silhouette. He doesn’t know what he cares about anymore.

She makes no move to get closer, granting him his own, if small, space. He’s simply grateful for that tacit understanding; that much he _knows_. He has to hold on to those few things he can still pinpoint in his life – and Cara is the only one he can actually see and touch right now, even if he doesn't dare to. He still can’t think about the ones he’s lost or he can’t reach for.

She’s still there, at least. That _has_ to count for something.

He’s still half-awake hours later, his eyes begging for sleep and his mind endlessly whirring in circles. He’s turned on his back and he tries to fall in place with Cara’s slow breathing, with no hint of success yet. His chest now heaves in a jerky, painful rhythm, then stops working altogether, then tries to make up for the lost breaths all at once – and so on, as he tries to hold back all that’s pushing to get out and swells with every passing moment.

He can still feel the numbness in his body, but it’s _alive_ now, and it doesn’t feel numb anymore. It’s raging with grief and asphyxiating powerlessness. It drinks the air in his lungs and spits out caustic venom. His throat tightens around his already raw vocal cords, and he forces down one bloody lump after another.

He grits his teeth, pushing that monster back with sorrowful rage. He has to _focus_. They’ll be shipping out at dawn and he hasn’t slept in maybe forty-eight hours. He needs to stay sharp, he needs to be the warrior he’s always been, eve if he's no _Mando'ad_ anymore. He needs to be in his best shape if he’s to save Grogu. _His kid_. His vision narrows, borders going black. He can’t even begin to _think_ what they’re doing to him right now, while he’s busy pining over his broken Creed and honor and useless shame.

It's that very thought that makes his ribcage snap in two. He jolts and has to choke down a broken, harrowing sob he didn’t even know he could emit. No tears come along with it – they stay painfully crystallized behind his eyes – just the feeling of something unhinging his ribcage bone by bone with a rusty tool. He presses his arm against his forehead until it hurts, clenching his jaw as tight as he can muster, his teeth almost creaking in the process.

«Din.»

His own name has never felt more welcome and stranger at the same time. He doesn’t move, but a ragged breath escapes him anyway, prompting Cara to turn towards him. She does it so slowly he could reach out at any moment to stop her, but he doesn’t. She settles on her side, one arm under the pillow almost under his own head, and that’s as close as she gets. He huffs out a tremulous breath, raking a hand through his hair. His forehead is clammy, but he can still feel goosebumps crawling all over him. He feels Cara grab a hem of their blanket and pull it over him.

Then he feels her hand ghost over his arm in an impalpable caress, and his muscles twitch and loosen under her touch. He draws in a deep, salty breath, feebly wishing she would linger a bit longer. She rests her hand on his side, just below his ribcage, as if hearing his wish.

When she makes to pull away, he immediately reaches for her. Her fingers fill the space between his own, so easily it seems like it’s not the first time. She briefly brushes her thumb across his scarred knuckles, then she just rests her hand into his own, gripping it firmly.

«Whatever you did, you did it for him.»

Those words cut right through the feverish, stifling curtain shrouding him. He gulps down hard, still gasping for hair, his chest ruptured under his skin.

«Yes,» he just whispers, his voice rattling with exertion. A couple of tears manage to escape from the corner of his eyes; they feel like a relief as they slide down his temples leaving a hot trail behind them. «I did.»

The cogs and wheels in his head slow down with a screech, and after almost two days he can finally hear his own thoughts. _The kid_. He has to save Grogu. No matter what. No matter how. It didn’t matter yesterday, it won’t matter tomorrow either. It shouldn’t. Maybe it never has, since the moment he chose him over anything else he held dear.

He turns his head and looks at his own helmet, resting in the corner as it catches the faint, lunar dim light coming from behind the shutters. It’s staring at him and he stares back, holding its lifeless gaze. It feels suddenly cold, almost hostile, even though it’s saved his life countless times. He’ll need it again, tomorrow. And he'll wear it again, as long as he'll need it.

He brings Cara’s hand just under his chin and presses her warmth near his pulse, still erratic, but ever more steady. She moves closer, her hair brushing his neck, and he takes a deep breath as the sweet, faint touch of sleep grazes upon his eyelids. Cara’s fingertips find the rough relief of an old scar on his collarbone, and they start to lightly outline it, in a soothing movement.

The darkness gets deeper as he steadily slips towards it, yet unable to fully embrace it. 

«I’d do it all over again,» he finds himself saying, in a last glimmer of clarity. It slips off his chest like an incandescent rock, burning his flesh to the bone, but freeing his lungs.

_Then you know you chose the only way_ , he thinks he hears in his slumber, so softly he could swear he’d just imagined it. She presses her palm upon the scar, just above his heart, where the beskar usually is – and will be tomorrow.

And, as he slowly closes his eyes, lulled by the echo of those words and vow, he realizes he’s finally able to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Just let my poor man sleep, 'aight?


End file.
